


Curiouser and Curiouser

by callingthequits



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Christmas fic, Gen, almost a, and things get mushy ugh, but hes not, but its not, harry is like the twelfth doctor, he's just just doing his job, kid!annabeth, so uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callingthequits/pseuds/callingthequits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Still curious and willing to learn, I hope!" He yells, and she manages a twitch of the lips at that. "Curiouser and curiouser! And never lose your muchness!"</p><p>She laughs. "Those aren't even real words!"</p><p>He shouts back, "Well, they are to me!" And with a loud crack, he was gone.</p><p> </p><p>Annabeth never did completely remember why she left. Here is a retelling of the night she left, with various Alice in Wonderland references, magic, and a man with emerald eyes. With a quiet creak, she's out running twice as fast, racing to somewhere she did know well, only she didn't know where. She was running home. </p><p>Merry Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, to all, and I hope you remember that home is where the heart is, and what a strange world we live in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiouser and Curiouser

**Author's Note:**

> Never intended to be a Christmas!fic, by the way. But it captures the essence of home, slightly, and I thought, hey, why not? 
> 
> Also, I would just like to credit [opalish](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/188153/opalish) for the idea of Harry jumping through space and time and dimensions and basically just being the Twelfth Doctor or something like that to give tips for future heroes and future villains. 
> 
> I would also like to add that there is a small shout-out to [our dancing days](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2479752/our-dancing-days) here, specifically in the alteration of a phrase from one of her fics: "Might have been; what a depressing phrase," from The Best People, which also, ironically, features Alice in Wonderland references. She might also be a slightly bit mad.
> 
> But we all are. So, without further ado, let us begin at the beginning, and go on till we come to the end; then stop. Shall we?

* * *

__"_ _ _'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!"_  


* * *

"Who are you?" she asks, feeling quite a bit of foolishness. Seven years old and yet here she was, narrowing her eyes at a very formidable-looking man who could kill her if he wanted to. How stupid of her to think that. It makes her think about what her father told her once, when she was four and he was starting to fall asleep ("I was tired from work," he said, with a slur in his words and almost falling over. But it wasn't the truth. His eyes were red and he was slightly flushed—work, he said, but it was a bad day and her father sometimes drank on bad days.) that she was the child of a genius, the smartest of all ladies, a fair maiden named Athena. He said that she was beautiful, elegant, smart, and all-around perfect. A goddess, he called her.

She wonders if she would ever become worthy of calling herself her daughter.

One part of her mind ponders upon this for a few seconds—three and point sixty-two seconds, to be exact, another part of her mind supplies—and answers that no, not until she saves the world. She would probably have to save the world two times too; just to be completely and irrevocably sure.

The man who randomly appeared in her room was still sitting comfortably on the window sill, calmly sipping a cup of something that smelled vaguely of honey. His eyes open behind his round glasses (extremely green, almost emerald-like, she notes. It was a good defining characteristic, along with a scar on his forehead that she couldn't properly see because of his bangs. She wonders where he got it.), and he let out a small sigh of appreciation.

He says, "Would you like some? Butterbeer. Madame Rosmerta's very best. I'm very lucky I managed some." She has no idea what he is talking about, she is both infuriated and intrigued by the fact, and some part of her can't help but notice his British accent and wonder how.

She shakes her head and he shrugs.

"Your loss," he says again, taking another sip. Carefully, he places the cup down on a saucer he's brought with him with his right hand, and with his other hand he brings out a thin stick. She thinks that he is going to poke her eye, and she wonders if she should have said yes to a drink instead. Instead, he taps his cup and a small wisp of yellow orange comes out from the stick, mutters something unintelligible, and the cup and saucer are no more.

She chokes out, "But how—" and feels her eyes widen. He smiles at her gently, almost parental like, and she feels the urge to leap into his arms and cry, because her own father hasn't done that much with her. A small part of her whispers, "It is alright to feel that way. He is safe. He will do you no harm." But she doesn't feel safe, because that voice is ethereal, echoing, magical, and infinite, and that voice isn't hers. Neither has she heard it before, but she feels like she knows this person, from a long time ago...

He stands up, keeps on smiling, and she discovers that he is a few centimeters taller than a normal teenager before he crouches down in front of her. Slowly, she begins to sit down on the floor, because standing when the other is crouching is awkward. He laughs.

"Did you see what I just did?" he asks, and he's smirking a little, like he already knew the answer.

She nods dutifully. He nods a little too, and he stands up again.

He reaches out to her with his hand. "Come on, let's sit on the bed. On the floor is just a bit too uncomfortable, don't you think?" He smiles again, and she giggles a bit before reaching out.

"Okay."

* * *

_"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."_

* * *

Later, when they're sitting on her bed, she says yes to a glass of Butterbeer and he's drinking from the same cup as he had before.

She asks, "Who are you, really?" And it breaks the silence that has placed itself upon them.

He answers, "A wizard, or at least something of that sort." He takes a small sip from his cup again, and she wonders why he uses those instead of glasses. Then she remembers he has a wand, is magical, wears robes, the whole shebang, and reminds herself that he was never that normal.

The silence continues. She finds that unlike any other silence that she has experienced in her life, that she doesn't mind. He takes a sip again.

A few minutes ago, he told her he was Harry. Out of courtesy, she replied her name was Annabeth. He retorted back, "Don't be silly, I never asked for your name. I never even asked who you are. Besides, I already know the answer to that." He winked at her, and she stared.

"Who am I, then, if you really know?" She challenged, feeling a smirk curl up. Unhealthy habit of hers; sometimes she doesn't think when she should, and sometimes she thinks when she shouldn't. Sometimes, she only acts, but sometimes that's a good thing so she doesn't mind. Sometimes she doesn't do either, and all she does during those times is dream.

All the time and always have never been phrases used in her house; only sometimes, or once, or never, or perhaps one day. On days when the rain is pattering itself on the window, her father likes to whisper the phrase, "What might have been." She said it was depressing, once; he gave her a wiry twitch of the lip and muttered, "It's true."

For some reason, one part of her thinks of tea cups and grins and an odd man with a hat, and another part wonders how a raven is like a writing desk. She hears the echo of "We're all mad here," and a sad man saying, while smiling, "All the best people are." She doesn't know why. She thinks she will never know why. But once her father gave her a book translated in Ancient Greek, something about a girl named Alice, with a tiny scribble on the title page.

"You know who I am," it said. She never got to go through any page more than that.

He had stared at her, raised an eyebrow, and he said, "Maybe later." For some reason, she complied.

She took a small sip of the glass he conjured for her. Harry was right; it was the very best.

* * *

_"What a strange world we live in..." said Alice to the Queen of hearts."_

* * *

"I was never supposed to have stayed this long."

She looks up from her glass, which is about half empty now. The man beside her looks sad and solemn, and she wonders if he is going to leave. She asks herself if she will miss him, and if he will miss her, and if she could see him again, maybe later in the future. She asks herself where he would go, and if she could come. She thinks she would like to come.

She says this, all of this, out loud to what has become her closest friend in a matter of one night.

He grabs his wand, and with a swift whoosh, her glass and his cup are gone.

All he does is smile, that small smile he had when they first met, and unlike last time, she gives into the urge and hugs him. He holds her close to his chest, and she begins to cry. She thinks that she is such a child, but she reminds herself that she is only seven, that she is still so young.

"The only thing I was supposed to do was tell you to be a good girl. I was supposed to leave after a few short minutes." He laughs there, and she can't possibly know why. She shudders in his arms. He continues. "But I didn't. I wasn't all that great either, you know? I was just all alone, and I didn't have anybody. You're lucky you're so strong. A lot of the time I cried myself to sleep at night, and my aunt would just come down to yell at me for it. I didn't do a thing. But you, you're made of iron. You rebeled, didn't take no for an answer, fought for yourself...You'd be better Gryffindor than I was. House of bravery, and all that.

"My boss told me to tell you to not be evil. But I won't. We're all just people. We're all part evil and we're all part good. We all have a heart, and it all just depends on who you give it to. That's what matters. And when you get a piece of heart yourself, you have to find out what you do with it. It's tricky when that happens, because that heart isn't yours. You have to care for it. Nurture it.

"For now, you don't have anybody to give your heart. That's okay, because I know people who died not giving even just one piece of their heart to someone else. In fact, that's kind of a good thing. You'll just wait for the right person. But it's also hard. It's very hard. Sometimes your heart breaks under that pressure. Sometimes you can't fix it."

She sobs. She wonders why he's telling her this. He pats her on the back, in some sort of consolation that she doesn't feel.

"Or at least, you think you can't."

She looks up, and he smiles again.

"What a lot of people don't realize," he says, looking towards the window with a soft look in his eyes, "is that we live in a strange world. Sometimes we say what we don't mean, and sometimes we do what we said we won't ever do. Sometimes we think when we shouldn't think, and sometimes we don't think when we do." And looks down at her, and he winks. She looks at him with a slightly open mouth, and he laughs. "Sometimes we say can't to what we can, and sometimes we say no when we could always say yes."

She looks at him there, really looks at him, and he grins ridiculously like a Cheshire cat, and suddenly it's the only thing she can see. She stares at him, because he said the A-word, and nobody ever says the A-word.

"You said it..." She says in awe.

"I don't need a weather vane to tell me where the wind blows," he points out, rather smugly. "You don't need to, either, and I sense you've picked up a bit of an attitude. But remember: which way you ought to go depends on where you want to get to, and every adventure has a first step. Only a few find the way, mind, and I chose my own path while you're going to choose a different one. You're going to meet all kinds of people, you're going to be someone important, and let us hope you find the right kind of people and the right kind of importance, shall we?"

In the midst of the silence that followed, she notes that he's still smiling. She wonders why.

"Can you say the phrase 'All the best people are,' for me?" She asks, and feels rather foolish.

He smiles, a knowing smile, like he already knew. "Have you gone mad?" he recites, sounding a bit wistful as he says it, and she feels something warm envelope her. "I'm afraid so, but let me tell you a secret. All the best people are."

Slowly, ever so slowly, his arms go limp, and he lets her go. She starts to stand. He doesn't stop her.

"We're all mad here," he says. "And," he continues, standing up himself, "it's time for me to go."

When he walks out of the window, she doesn't stop him either. All she does is watch, feel the wind dry her tears, and try to smile. He smiles back from where he's suspended in the air, and he waves. At this point, she is too exhausted to wave back. But he understands. He always did.

"Still curious and willing to learn, I hope!" He yells, and she manages a twitch of the lips at that. "Curiouser and curiouser! And never lose your muchness!"

She laughs. "Those aren't even real words!"

He shouts back, "Well, they are to me!" And with a loud crack, he was gone.

* * *

  
_"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked._   
_"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."_   


* * *

When she turns back to her room, she notices the sudden appearance of a book. She picks it up and mutters, "What are you doing here? Go back to the bookshelf, you—" And she stops when she processes what book it was.

Slowly, she opens it. Her fingers brush past the edge of the title page, where she finds a newer note by her mother's scribble.

"'It was much pleasanter at home, thought poor Alice.' You should go and find yours."

Five minutes later, she's packed her bag. When she's almost by her bedroom door, she looks to the window and whispers, "Happy Unbirthday to me. Happy Unbirthday to you too, Harry."

And with a quiet creak, she was gone.

* * *

  
_"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice._  
 __"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."_ _

* * *


End file.
